100 Words To Play
by skyfare
Summary: series of 100 word drabbles: Snow Globe, Diary, Laundry, Trash Can


**A/N. I don't own the characters, please don't sue, etc. Written to get over a fear of editing out things--you _can't _have anything extraneous/unnecessary when you only have 100 words to play.**

**1. Snow Globe.**

**(post-Purgatory)**

**(B)**

_Word count: 100_

***

Shake it and the world explodes.

Drop it and it breaks.

***

First real present he bought her. Coffee and Skittles didn't count. He saw it at a roadside stand, hard pretty glass, and he thought of her.

Lately he's _always _thinking about her.

Snow globe, Eames.

It seemed so natural.

***

Her smile is electric.

"You got this for me?"

"I felt bad about breaking the Santa mug."

"I love it." Glares. "Don't break this, too."

"I won't."

***

Three years later, cleaning up a rat in his desk, his elbow knocks it off.

Destroys it.

She trusted him.

Everything is broken.

***

**(A)**

_Word count: 100_

***

He broke it. She told him not to, and he did.

An _accident_, he pleads.

It's not like I did it on _purpose._

"You should have been more careful." Her words gunshots, attacking. "What the hell were you doing?"

His face becomes stone. Glass. "Nothing."

Nothing.

"I'm sorry." Desperate. "Don't be mad about _this_, too."

She turns away.

***

The next morning there are ten, no twenty, no _fifty_ snow globes on her desk.

They barely all fit.

He is anxious, waiting for her response.

"Nice try."

His face breaks. "I'm sorry."

"You broke my trust."

The root of the problem.

*******

**  
(B and A)**

_Word count: 100_

***

She gives them away as his heart breaks and breaks and breaks.

By the end of the morning every desk in the squad room has a new snow globe.

She keeps one.

Just one.

"My favorite," she explains without looking up.

A delicate couple, hand in hand, under a speckled glitter sky.

He smiles.

***

End of the day. Detectives leaving with new snow globes in pockets.

"Bye," he says.

She doesn't answer.

"Bye, Eames."

Nothing.

"Fine."

"Wait."

She stands, slowly.

"Bobby…thanks."

"It's not enough," he says. "It's not. But I'll try not to break this one, this time."

She smiles.

***

**(BA)**

_Word count: 100_

***

You can't fix glass.

But you can glue it together.

And ignore the cracks.

***

Midnight. Empty squad room. Paperwork, filing, typing away into silence.

"My father's Mark Ford Brady," he says. Doesn't look up.

She stares at him, mouth open.

"Bobby—"

"I trust you." Eyes lifted to hers. "You think I don't, but I do. First person I've told."

She gets up. Goes over to him. Her hands on his back, on his hands.

"_Bobby."_

He swivels around, opens his knees, and she steps into his embrace.

***

Winter.

A delicate couple, hand in hand, under a speckled glitter sky.

***

**2. Diary. **

**(B)**

_Word count: 98_

***

He never thought she'd be the type to keep a diary, but he finds it when he's going through a messy stack of files on her desk.

Black leather, ribbon sticking out, thick pages.

He starts to open it.

Sees a peek of her authoritative scrawl.

All those pages.

Her _thoughts._

He could read it.

So easily.

He could find out what she really thinks of him.

But he thinks back on the night they got together. Hours spent talking—mostly about trust.

Hours spent making out.

He smiles.

Snaps it shut.

He doesn't have to read it.

***

**(A)**

_Word count: 102_

***

Late winter, snuggled together under blankets.

"I…have something for you."

He pulls open a drawer on the coffee table.

Hands her a faded black notebook.

"What's this?"

He smiles, puts his hands behind his head. Reconsiders. Puts his hands around _her_.

"It's for you to read. If you want. You don't have to, but you can."

She opens it to the cover page.

"It's…a diary?"

He nods.

"You're letting me read your diary?"

"It's from the year my mom got sick. I know you felt that I didn't…trust you then."

She turns to the first page.

Hesitates.

"You sure?"

"I trust you."

***

**3. Laundry.**

_Word count: 100_

***

Laundry days are Tuesday, Thursday. Dry cleaning is dropped off on Saturday, picked up on Monday.

Their routine.

She grumbles about the incessant assembly line of wearing and washing and drying and folding and wearing again.

He _loves _it.

His corduroy shirts mixed with her tank tops. Their socks intermingled, hers half the size of his.

She always snaps him with the towels, and he always chases her around the laundry room, giggling.

They end up naked together on the stacks of freshly laundered towels, and then they have to wash them again.

The incessant assembly line.

He _loves _it.

***

**4. Trash Can.**

**(beginning of partnership)**

**(B)**

_Word count: 101_

***

At work. Feels like hell, thanks to the flu.

But he doesn't want to miss the first stakeout with his new partner.

"Are you all right?" she asks him. "You're _green_. Frog green. Lima bean green."

"Don't talk about lima beans," he groans, "and I'll be fine."

The corners of her eyes crinkle up. "Whatever you say, Bobby."

First time she's called him Bobby.

Through the sticky haze of nausea he thinks, _huh._

***

Ten hours later, at the stakeout. Stomach churning.

"I brought you a trash can," she says. "Just in case."

"Sorry."

She squeezes his arm. "Not your fault."

_Huh_.

***

**(A)**

_Word count: 100_

***

Her partner looks miserable. Six feet four and curled up in his seat, his eyes trained on the street. A muscle in his jaw working as he swallows repeatedly.

"Good thing I brought that trash can," she quips. He gives her a ragged smile.

"Yeah. Hopefully I won't have to—" He stops talking. Bends over the trash can clutched between his knees. Shakes his head. Closes his eyes, swallowing harder and faster.

Miserable.

She reaches over and rubs his back like her mom used to for her when she was sick.

He relaxes under her touch.

Sits up.

"Thanks."

***

**(A, again)**

_Word count: 105_

***

The suspect doesn't show, so Deakins calls off the stakeout.

"Better luck next time," her partner offers.

"Right."

She drives off, mindful of every pothole making him wince.

"Sorry."

He shakes his head. "Not your fault. And…thanks again, for…everything."

"It wasn't much."

"It _was_. It—" That muscle in his jaw, again.

"Need me to pull over?"

"No."

He stares out the window, and she thinks he's done talking.

"I never had anyone rub my back like that before," he says softly. "It was…nice."

She shrugs. "My mom used to do that when I was sick."

"Mine didn't."

She looks over at him. Thinks, _huh. _

_***_

**(B, again)**

_Word count: 100_

***

The next two days he spends dividing his time between his bed and the bathroom. He calls in to work, speaks briefly to Eames.

"Still sick then, Bobby?"

"Yeah."

The phone line hums with silence. Then: "Do you need anything? Soup, or trashy tabloids—you should rest your brain—or ginger ale, maybe?"

Curled up on the bathroom floor, 103 degree fever, sick and shivering and shaking, but he smiles.

"I'm okay, Eames."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I'll try to come back tomorrow, for the next stakeout."

He can practically hear her smirk over the phone. "I'll bring the trash can."

***

**A/N. More to come--writing these little drabbles is oddly addicting, I've found.**


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